


Soothing the Pain

by Quiet_Shadow



Series: Love Them, Sooth Them [1]
Category: Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Breastfeeding, Consensual, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied/Hinted Slash, M/M, Non Consensual, Painplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 22:58:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quiet_Shadow/pseuds/Quiet_Shadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratchet's role as a medic is to sooth the pain, physical or emotional. And sometimes, his team really needs the emotional kind. What better, in those cases, than to lie against him and let him feed them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soothing the Pain

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another fic inspired by Camfield and her 'Transformers Breastfeeding Chronicles'. It was actually my first attempt at writing breastfeeding.
> 
> Some light Spoilers for the episode 'Thrill of the Hunt'.

Ratchet was a medic. It was in his coding and spark to try to heal all aches and pains he encountered, even if he was often sarcastic and somehow harsh about it. But making field repairs wasn’t the only thing he could do to provide healing and comfort. No. After all, he still had active feeding protocols.

In truth, all mechs could feed another one from their own lines, unless they had them removed for whatever reason (and, in some rare case, but mostly with pre-programmed mechs, if they hadn’t been built with them). The quantity of energon they could proceed through those lines varied, though, in function of frame-type, age, and other details. Civilians usually used them for their sparklings, lovers and close friends. But in Autobots teams, wherever they were Elite Guard ones or small Repairs crews like their own, it was most often the medic who fed the whole team. It could be for medical reasons, emotional ones or because no other fuel sources were available. Ratchet also knew that in most clinics and hospitals on Cybertron, it was the favored way to feed grievously injured patients.

Ratchet had fed quite a lot of mechs during the War, but ever since, well… Who wanted an old, rather unattractive, grumpy ‘bot like him as the one to nourish you?

This team, it seemed.

*_*_*_*

Of all of them, Bulkhead is the only one he nursed even before coming to Earth. The green mech had presented himself to his medbay one cycle, a bit embarrassed at what he was about to ask, and unsure the medic would accept. Because, well, he’s kinda… big.

Bulkhead is one of the nicest and perhaps naïve Autobot Ratchet had ever encountered. But the fact remains, he is far too big for normal accommodation. Now, Ratchet had no problem about feeding a mech this size from his own systems. He never did it before, but a mech was a mech, and in the end, they all did the same thing: suck and lap and nibble at his pouches until they had their fill. The only problem with Bulkhead was how much he consumed even without wanting to; since he’s so large, he needs more fuel than a standard-sized mech. To be sated, he would need to empty both of Ratchet’s pouches. Not exactly dangerous, but not the most comforting thought when one had to check his own reserves.

Bulkhead is very, very hesitant in speaking to him. He knows very well the limitation imposed by his frame. Ratchet tries to be understanding, and he doesn’t blame Bulkhead, but he fumes internally. Apparently, numerous sons of glitch had refused him the small comfort of direct feeding because they were afraid he would deplete them. If they ever got back to Cybertron, Ratchet swore he was going to hunt down and whack the lot of them over the head. Twice.

There was a rare hurt in Bulkhead’s optics as he related the incidents, while Ratchet made him lie down on the medbay’s largest berth.

“When I was a youngling, I was already very big, and I just… couldn’t satiate myself. Lot of growing systems to keep online by default until I knew which ones discard or temporarily shut down, you know? They never wanted to give me regular energon at the energon farm; they thought I would drain too much, and cost them too much resources,” he said, dishearten, as Ratchet sit next to him and squeezes his hand and prompts him to tell him more. “Both my creators raised me with only energon from their own systems until I was big enough to consume regular energon on my own. It was nice to curl up against them like that, while feeding. Later, I got cubes like everyone, but still, I liked it better when they nourished me themselves. Then they died, and nobody did it for me ever again.”

He’s a bit sad, and Ratchet shall say, bitter, about the whole thing. Ratchet grumbles profanities under his breath as he moves to straddle the big mech‘s waist. Not in a sexual way, no; he doesn’t look at Bulkhead like that, it would be wrong, what’s with their age difference. But he wants the green mech to lie down while he feeds him. Bulkhead startles; for all intents and purposes, he wasn’t really expecting Ratchet to agree. But the medic looked at him seriously and with determination.

“Well, they’re idiots,” he groused as he parted his chestplates, “All mechs needs a little something to feel good. Here is yours.” His systems had started running the moment Bulkhead had first asked, so he was more than ready to tend to the younger ‘bots needs.

Bulkhead makes a weak attempt at standing up, optics hypnotized by Ratchet’s weighted pouches, which starts to take a slight pendulous move as the medic get on all four on his chest and crawl toward his face.

“Ratchet… I can’t… I mean, you’ll have nothing left, and the others…” He’s rudely interrupted by a snort from Ratchet. “The others never asked, so I’ll assume they don’t need it. And if they do, they’ll wait for their turn.”

Sure, it will probably take a while to replenish, but just to have Bulkhead smiling and relaxed, he really thinks it‘s worth it.

It’s final. Gently, Ratchet let down his dangling pouches barely an inch away from Bulkhead’s face. Finally, the Space Bridge specialist raises his head a little, and takes one of the little nubs, already dripping with fluid, into his large mouth.

The position is uncomfortable, but Ratchet doesn’t mind too much. Bulkhead’s hands are strong and steady around his waist, and he knows the green mech will not let him go. He’s enjoying himself, optics shuttered, vents cycling faster, and mouth working slowly at draining away the enriched energon Ratchet keeps producing. A tad too slowly, perhaps, but the medic understands; Bulkhead wants it to last, because he doesn’t know when he’ll next have the occasion.

Then In the polished metal surface of the head of the berth, the medic notices they have an audience. A yellow, usually loudmouthed audience, who is presently staring at the old grumpy medic and his best friend with incredulity, positively stricken by what they are doing. Ratchet smirks and turns his head a little, acknowledging Bumblebee is here. Well, he can’t feed him too and probably not for a while, but he’s welcome to join in later on. But when he notices Ratchet noticed him, Bumblebee squawks and run away. Ratchet sighs and gently pats Bulkhead’s head. The green Autobot hadn’t even noticed.

*_*_*_*

It took him a while – and the whole Allspark/Megatron/crashing on Earth hadn’t helped – but eventually, the yellow bot came to him.

Bumblebee is shuffling awkwardly when he finally decides to approach Ratchet, hands hidden behind his back, gaze lowered to the floor, just throwing quick, embarrassed glances at the medibot’s chest. Ratchet frowns at him, asks him why he doesn’t state clearly what he wants; he will not refuses him, he never refused to feed someone. It’s ingrained in him since the Great War. But he wants the little yellow ‘bot to be honest about his needs.

“I… saw… With Bulkhead. And, and, I was kinda wondering? Can… can I have some… please?”

There. He said it. Ratchet relents, leans back in his chair, and invites the Minibot to come and sit on his laps, while he opens his chestplates, letting Bumblebee gawk at him as his energon lines slowly bring the enriched liquid into his pouches. Bumblebee’s uneasy.

“Do… do they always grow so large?” he mumbles as he tries to find a comfortable position on the medic’s laps. Ratchet raises an optic ridge; it’s not a question one asks him often. “Depends of much I have to spare. I could make them bigger if I had more reserves, but I don’t. Anyway, the linen is pretty flexible, but there’s still a limit.”

Bumblebee sits, try to find a comfortable position, but he squirms too much. Ratchet grumps. “Okay, youngling; what’s the deal?” He asks a bit brusquely, but not really unkindly. He already has a pretty good idea of what is wrong.

Bumblebee is red-faced, cheeks running hot from humiliation. “I never… I mean, my creators hadn’t exactly expected to have me, I was an unwel… a surprise, so neither of them… Well, they both had their energon wells suppressed, and… It’s just, they only ever used bottles of already processed energon, so… well, it tasted pretty awful and it was hard to come by, and I never got much anyway, and… Oh, frag it, Ratch’, I never did that before, I don’t know what I must do,” he finally finishes with a small voice. Ratchet nods. He expected as much, given Bumblebee’s questions and awkwardness.

“It’s alright, youngling,” he said, guiding the yellow Autobot, gently making him lean against him, face next to one of his nub. “I’ll help you out.” His own hand covers the smaller ‘bot’s own, and he gently press it against the other pouch, letting Bumblebee feeling the smooth texture. Still, Bumblebee’s optics are fixated on his nub, and the small drop of liquid at the edge of it. Nervously, he licks his lips, and glances at Ratchet, unsure of what to do. He’s very tempted to just grasp it between his dental plates, but he isn’t sure it’s what he’s supposed to do.

“Use your glossa to lap, gently. No outright sucking at first, you’ll just choke,” instructs the medic. Bumblebee nods nervously, and ever so slowly, latch onto the nub, one hand caressing the other pouch and involuntarily teasing the other nub. He shudders as the liquid start feeling his mouth, a bit more quickly and strongly than he had expected. The taste is… different from what he knows, but not bad. In fact, it’s even surprisingly good, and he can’t help but hum in contentment.

As he does so, however, Ratchet gasps a little as he senses the liquid start dripping from his engorged pouch, and he feels a vague tingling of arousal under Bumblebee’s unattended molestation. But it’s not the time, nor the place. Bumblebee isn’t here for interfacing, just some long, overdue comfort in feeding from a mech’s own lines. And besides, like Bulkhead, he’s too young for Ratchet to safely consider him as a berth partner.

Bumblebee relaxes in Ratchet’s hold, cheek pressed against one of the broad pouches, glossa and lips working around the small nub, and lets himself being slowly lulled to recharge while sating himself with sweet, enriched fuel. Ratchet just enjoys the silence while it last.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Unlike the others, Prowl isn’t even dancing around the issue.

One night, he’s just here, in Ratchet’s own quarters as the medic rouses from recharge to find a blue visor staring at him, a few inches away from his face. Ratchet yelps, try to it the intruder with a wrench (wondering all the while how in the Pit a Decepticon managed to enter here without raising a single alarm), which is easily avoided and deflected. The intruder takes a few steps back, and only then Ratchet recognizes the Cyberninja. After making sure he wasn’t going to be kill in his own berth, Ratchet’s temper literally flares up.

“What’s the hell did you think you were doing, you little…!”

Prowl stops him before he can start a rant by, surprisingly, kissing him passionately. Well, as passionately as a stoic ninja is able to, meaning not much. But it had the desired effect; Ratchet cuts himself before he can start a long tirade in which figured the ninjabot rather dubious qualities and state of mind.  
Blinking, he let himself fall back on his berth and frowned at Prowl.

“Okay, ninjabot, what was that about?”

He doesn’t believe for a second he had gathered Prowl’s interest (he has no illusion on what most bots think of him: an old, outdated model without anything pleasant about him), but he’s rather surprised the ninja would do something like that without having some kind of plan.

“I require a favor,” he said simply, his optics fixed at the medic chest’s level.

Ratchet groaned. So that was what it was all about. Again. Seriously, did any of those youngsters (and Prowl was also a youngster in his optics; not quite as young as the rest, since he had know the end of the Great War, but still a youngling next to Ratchet) had a good childhood, with nice creators (he knows, due to Bumblebee’s little slip, that his weren’t exactly pleasant) able to feed them as much as they wanted with full pouches?

“Prowl… it’s not I’m refusing, but why did you came to ask me that now? I would have thought you had no interest in feeding from a mech’s lines again. You certainly didn’t seem interested when I alluded to it when you first joined the crew.”

And it was true; Ratchet had made a veiled offer then, discretely, to try and get the ninja to open to them – or at least him. The proposition had been coolly refused.  
Prowl’s cheeks darkened. “True. At the time, I hadn’t been.”

“So what? Did you randomly decide: ‘Hey, and if I woke Ratchet in the middle of a recharge cycle to go and suck off his nubs?’?”

Prowl shook his head. “No. I merely found fascinating to watch some young mammals with their parents. I saw a human female nursing a child of her own, as well as various animals around here pertaining into feeding smaller members of their species by using milk glands similar to our own pouches. I must say, it made me… nostalgic, I would say. I wanted to… reenact the part,” he finished, a little guiltily.

Ratchet blinked and face palmed. Primus…

“Oooookay. Weird. Very weird. But coming from you, I should have known. So, you want some suckling like in the good all time you were just a lil’ sparkling without a care for the world? Eh, why not,” he shrugged. “I’ve seen weirder things. Why me, though?” the old medic asked. “Why not Bulkhead or Bumblebee, or even Prime?”

Prwol frowned. “Bumblebee and Bulkhead never activated their own feeding lines and don’t have the necessary commands to do so on their own. And Prime…” Prowl made a gesture. “Isn’t the best suited for what I had in mind.”

Ratchet catches on what is being said between the lines. Prime is younger than Prowl.

“So you chose me because I’m old?” he asked with a growl.

Prowl looked offended. “Of course not! I choose you because you’re the one that would better fill the role of a father.”

That made Ratchet pause. “… I thought it was the female of the species who had the milk for the young?”

Prowl nodded swiftly. “True. However, calling you ‘Mother’ might have resulted in severe injuries for me.” Ratchet snorted. “Too right, it would.” Prowl smiled faintly. “Besides, unlike organic creatures, we aren’t limited by the laws of what they call ‘biology’.”

Prowl’s fingertips brushed against Ratchet’s chest. Without a word, the red and white mech parted his plates and activated his lines before lying back on his berth and curling upon his side, wordlessly inviting Prowl to join him. Prowl nodded and arranged his lithe body next to his, his face at the level of his rapidly feeling pouches. “Thank you.”

Ratchet shrugged. “Don’t mention it. Have a good meal,” he added as he put his arms around Prowl’s shoulders and shuttered his optics. He was too tired to stay awake much longer, and at least, Prowl knew what he was doing. Already, the black and gold ninja was greedily sucking on the first nub he had latched upon, arms wrapped solidly around Ratchet’s own waist and gently massaging his lower back. “Can I get a massage out of the deal?” he asked with a sleepy voice. “I’ve heard ninja are quite good at it…”

Prowl released his grab on the nub with an audible ‘pop’, head slightly tilted before nodding slightly. Ratchet smiled sleepily. “Then take as much as you want; plenty for you…”

He didn’t try to stay awake much longer; instead, he shuttered his optics once more, and let himself be lulled back into recharge, enjoying the sensation of a mouth working diligently on his pouches, while pressing into the hot body next to his.

*_*_*_*

And then, there was Optimus

Now, Ratchet could say many things about the leader of their motley crew, but he also knows he mustn’t be too snappish with him for a while. Not after seeing how shaken he was after the incident with Lockdown (and hadn’t it been a nasty surprise to see the slagging bounty hunter here, after all this time?).

More shaken then he ought to be, and that made Ratchet immediately suspicious. His core temperature was too high, his steps were unsteady, his vents working hard, and there was some dark paint streaks on his usual paintjob. Ratchet’s optics narrowed as he helped Optimus walking to the medbay, Prowl, Bumblebee and Bulkhead in his wake, giving firm orders to the rest of the team to not walk in if they didn’t want to be reformatted into one of those humans’ kitchen appliances. As the two youngest sputtered and the cyberninja hummed in comprehension, he was mentally preparing himself for the worse. He needed to see Optimus alone and assert the damages which might have been caused during his capture. And he was sure he was going to find some, with a sick fragger like Lockdown. He was sure the stolen grapplers had only been the tip of the iceberg, as some humans said.

There were indeed some damages, but not the ones Ratchet had first expected.

The first thing he had done, once the medbay’s doors sealed behind him, was to push the Prime down on a berth, flip him around to make him lie on his back, forced his legs apart and used override codes to make him open his interface panel, completely ignoring Prime’s cry of shock and embarrassment, half-worried, half-seething at what he expected to find.

But there was none of the injuries he had thought to find; no sign, no proof of any non-consensual interfacing, or any sign of interfacing at all. Optimus quickly crossed his tights, too shocked to think about closing his panel just yet.

“The Pit, Ratchet! What was that for?”

The old medic looked at his leader’s almost fearful optics. “I’m sorry; I thought he could have…” he trailed off. Optimus, cheeks flushed and optics downcast, nodded in comprehension as he closed his panel and concealed his most private parts from view. “No. He… didn’t have the time for that, I guess.”

The ‘for that’ made Ratchet tick. Just one click, he had thought he had been worried for nothing, that the bounty hunter had not done anything worse than threaten Optimus and rip away his mods, which in itself could have been traumatic enough (though he would have pegged Optimus as more courageous than that). But the words ‘for that’ implied something had definitely taken place.

No interfacing, for sure, but then what…?

The paint streaks and scratch marks were mainly concentrated on Optimus’ chest, he notes, alarmed. “Optimus,” he called softly, “I need you to open your chestplates for me.”

That did it. Optimus brought his knees to his chest, as if attempting to raise a barrier. “That will not be necessary,” he stated coldly. But not coldly enough for Ratchet to not hear the slight quiver in his voice.

Ratchet’s optics narrowed. “Open your chestplates. Now. Or else I use the EMP generator,” he warned him. Slaggit, why couldn’t the kid understand he was trying to help?

Optimus took a worried look. “You wouldn’t dare…” For all answer, Ratchet brought out the generator and charged it. Optimus’ optics widened, and his knees went down. His lower lip trembled. “Ratchet… please… Don’t make me.”

The medic gave him a sympathetic but determined look. “I need to see what that slagger has done. So, chestplates. Now.”

Optimus gulped then, with extreme reluctance, let his chest components part. Ratchet shuttered his optics, took a deep inspiration through his vents, and started to gather rags and medical supplies as Optimus, head low, let his hands drop in his laps.

Ratchet had expected worse. But there was only a number of scratches, some of them rather deep, on both flat, empty pouches, and rivulets of enriched energon staining all the insides. Ratchet was also fairly sure he saw bits marks on the nubs and both pouches as well as puncture wounds in the actual lines.  
It didn’t paint a pretty picture. “He tried to feed on you,” he stated plainly. Optimus nodded feebly. “And I guess you didn’t obey?” This time, the red and blue Autobot shook his head.

“He said… he said he had never tasted a truckbot,” he whispered, hands shaking in his laps. Ratchet tried not to pause, just gather what he needed, and start repairing what he could. Optimus would tell him all, he was certain of it.

“I didn’t want to let him,” whispered Optimus. “I tried to keep my plates sealed, but… He still managed to. And then I wouldn’t activate the feeding lines, and he started to…” he shuddered. “He said some pain would make me produce anyway, so he started using his hook to… And his teeth were so sharp… He… he tried to arouse me with pain play,” Optimus whispered in shame. “He… that hurst, and then it did not, and… He continued like that for… I just don’t know. And then my pouches started to fill, and I just couldn’t stop it!” he cried out in dismay.

Ratchet didn’t comment, didn’t offer any advices or misplaced sympathies. He just let Optimus vent it out of his systems, soft humiliated sobs spacing little by little. When he judged Optimus had calmed down enough, he grabbed a rag, and gently, started to wipe out the energon staining the delicates components. Optimus shuddered, but said nothing and didn’t try to get away from him.

“How is the pain?” he asked flatly, trying to be objective. “And no false bravado, I’m not in the mood for that.”

Optimus bit his lips. “It’s… not so bad anymore.” Ratchet nodded. “Self-repair already started. I can’t do much; he did most of the damages in the softest parts of the pouches. No miracle cure for that. I can only apply a gel to cool them down and protect the open wounds. You want me to?” he asked softly. Optimus took a klik to think, and then nodded in agreement.

Neither of them spoke as Ratchet worked, throwing away the soiled rags, and pressing his fingers as gently as possible on the open wounds, gently massaging the most painful parts and spreading the healing blue gel all over the Prime. Finally he nodded, satisfied with his handiwork, and signaled to Optimus he could finally close his chestplates. The red and blue mech obeyed with visible relief.

“Don’t tell them,” he asked softly.

Ratchet raised an optic ridge. “I have no intention to. Patient confidentiality, kid.”

Optimus smiled, reassured, and made a move to rise up and leave.

Then Ratchet activated his own feeding lines. Optimus watched him big wide optics. “Ratchet…” he started. The medic cut his out with a gesture and sat next to him, gently grabbing him by the shoulders to make him lean against him in a semi comfortable position.

“You need it,” stated Ratchet in a tune that allowed no contradiction. Optimus was rather put out and distressed. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he muttered. Ratchet snorted. “You will not. Come on; it will help you. It’s not painful. It’s not shameful. Feeding someone is natural. It isn’t supposed to be unpleasant. That’s part of us, to give and take. You need to be reminded of it, youngling.”

But Optimus wouldn’t try. And Ratchet was determined to not let him go so long he hadn’t come in his arms and started sucking some energon. So he added some more locks on the medbay’s doors by internal comms, grabbed Optimus’ arms and forced him to stay next to him, face near his precious feeding lines.  
It took time. Optimus just leaned against him, hands at his side, unmoving and not even trying to take the nubs in his mouth. After a while, Ratchet took one his pouches into one of his hand, releasing part of his grip on Optimus, and started to fondle it. Soon, fluid was slowly dripping from his nubs, staining his pouches, and Ratchet looked at Optimus intently, urging him to go on.

The red and blue mech bit his lip, hesitated some more, then approached his face from the pouches, tentatively licking away the enriched liquid. Ratchet sighed as he coaxed Optimus in cleaning him off, and started to lie down flat on the berth, still not letting go of Optimus, who had no choice but lie with him.

Ratchet’s thumb caressed a bluish cheek. Blue hands finally moved to be put on white shoulders guards, and Optimus buried his face into Ratchet’s chest, lips finally enclosing one of the delicate nubs as he started to suck on it, as gently as possible, locking his optics into Ratchet’s own. Optimus wasn’t leaking cleaning fluid from his optics, but he was near to. Ratchet sighed and gently patted him in encouragement. No fluid came at first, as Optimus didn’t try hard enough, but after a while and with Ratchet’s encouragement and unflinching stare, he started adding more pressure, and was rewarded by a mouthful of sweet liquid he gulped down.  
Ratchet patted him on the head as Optimus continued, taking mouthful after mouthful, even more carefully than Bulkhead, and sighed.

It seemed he would be playing the nurse bot for quite a while.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked :)  
> There will be more at some point, so stay around ;)


End file.
